Jack Conte The Giant
I guess you're done. You're doomed. You can stop licking
your wounds. You're just recycled ash. You're just going
back
But the strong will survive! The poets will cry, but not
I. Not I.
The planets move, and all is right!
Draw the giant's outline in chalk next to the bloody
slingshot's rock, and we'll bury him along with your
statistics.
And the weak will comply, leak, and resign with still
eyes. Still eyes.
The planets move, and so do I!
